


Frogs have so much spring

by isa_belle



Category: A New Brain - Finn/Lapine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 10:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle
Summary: I suck in a breath, laying my fingers on the white keys, and play a quick few chords, repeating the notes in my head as I go. I scour my brain for a trace of creativity, or at least anything that will convince Rhoda I’ve had a sufficient work day, but my head feels fuzzy. I shake it off and proceed spout the first bit of frog bullshit I deem acceptable.Basically just the first song in A New Brain





	Frogs have so much spring

**Author's Note:**

> So I noticed there’s not that much content about this show, so I sort of wrote some? But I’m not very creative so it’s just what happens in the first song. ((Also this is the first thing I’ve written so please don’t hate me))

“Just play me what you have!” 

    I suck in a breath, laying my fingers on the white keys, and play a quick few chords, repeating the notes in my head as I go. I scour my brain for a trace of creativity, or at least anything that will convince Rhoda I’ve had a sufficient work day, but my head feels fuzzy. I shake it off and proceed spout the first bit of frog bullshit I deem acceptable.

    “Frogs have so much spring within them. Jump, frog, jump. Jump so high you-“ I stammer, having run out of creative drive after merely one sentence, typical, “-split your tights.”

    Rhoda winces and I sigh, slamming my hands onto the piano keys. 

    “I know! I know. It’s bad.” I scratch out the few mindlessly scribbled notes I have in my notebook. “But-but! I have something else, though. Hold on.” Again I place my hands on the piano. “Here we go,” I quickly glance at Rhoda who watches, unamused, blonde hair twirled between her thin fingers, “ready?” 

     I start playing a few peppy chords, trying to not look sarcastic, and raise my voice a few octaves in a futile attempt to sound cheery amidst my frog-centered misery. 

    “Frogs have so much spring within them. Jump, frog, jump. Lily pads are your next stop... kerplop.” I bite my lip, “you missed the lily pad, _fuck_.” I slam my hands on the poor piano in frustration once more. 

    “It’s...” Rhoda, starts, the attempt at optimism apparent in her happy tone. Evidently, she gives up. “Yeah, it’s bad.”

    “Ugh!” I bury my face in my hands, elbows resting on the piano keys as they let out a few startled and off-key dinks. “What the hell am I doing, Rhoda? Writing songs for frogs?”

    My fingers dance across the keys and I sing, “those nasty... gnats, they’re nature’s little acrobats, I hate them more than kitty cats- ugh” 

  “What the hell, Gordon!?” Rhoda says, on the brink of yelling. She seems to notice her volume, glancing around and quieting herself slightly, “I need this song!”

   “I know you do, and I’m sorry it’s late!” I say. 

   “You’re always late.”

    “I’m well aware,” I sigh, “is Bungee angry that he doesn’t have the ‘Spring Song’ yet?” I keep my eyes focused on the piano, pretending to think, but I doubt I fool Rhoda. 

     She shakes her head, tossing her pony tail back and forth and giving me glare that could rival that of my mother. “No, Bungee’s angry that he doesn’t have the ‘Yes’ song.”

     “I hate the ‘Yes Song.’” I say, turning to look at her, “I hate the ‘Spring Song!’ I hate Mr. Bungee, and this job, God it’s bad.” I run my fingers through my hair, wallowing in my self-pity. “And it’s taking up all of my time!”

     Rhoda rolls her eyes, “It’s called a job and I’d like to keep mine!”

    “I don’t have time to work on my real stuff!” 

     “You’re a mess,” she says as if I don’t know. 

     “I can’t put a pen to paper! How can I when my head’s full of frog shit?”

     “Maybe,” Rhoda suggests, pointing at me with the pen that was previously tucked behind her ear, “if you stopped sulking for one minute you’d actually write one damn song! Mr. Bungee hates your guts, Gordon.”

    “Well I hate him too!” I pout, but Rhoda is persistent. 

    “I think he hates you more!” 

    I sigh again, “why does Mr. Bungee hate me?”

    Rhoda puts a hand to her chin in a mock, ‘thinking’ gesture. “Hmm,” she says, not sounding like she’s thinking in the slightest, “Maybe, because you haven’t finished a song!”

    I scoff. 

    “Don’t scoff,” she says, “and damn it write the ‘Spring Song’ or write the ‘Yes’ song. Don’t let your career flop!”

    “As you can see,” I snap, waving my hands around my scratched out notes, trying to make a point, “I don’t write well for frogs!”

    _You_ _really_ _should_ _be_ _more_ _polite_ _to_ _your_ _friends_ , _Gordo_. Says a foggy voice that sounds suspiciously like Mr. Bungee accompanied my a poking pain in the side of my head. I blink, and look around for him, confused, but shake it out of my head. 

    “I hate Mr. Bungee, Mr. Bungee’s homophobic-“

    “He’s really not,” Rhoda tries, but it doesn’t deter me. 

    “I hate Mr. Bungee and his stupid son. He makes me feel like my work is shit-which it is, but that’s not the point- the point is that I hate Mr. Bungee!” I inhale and look to my right, feeling like Bungee’s just over my shoulder and isn’t that great, the jerk’s invaded my thoughts now too. 

    “Wait,” I say, eyes still hopping from spot to spot around the room, “is Mr. Bungee here?”

    “Yeah,” Rhoda says flatly, “I’m sitting on his face right now.”

    “Ha ha.”

    “C’mon, Gordon. Finish this song and then you’ll write the epic. First kids TV, but then a Broadway show. It’s not gonna be easy to get from here-“ she holds her hand at her waist, “-To here-“ she lifts her hand above her head, “but you can do it, Gordon.”

    “Maybe you think I can,” I say, trying not to sound as dejected as I feel, but really how else am I supposed to feel? I should be so much farther than I am, working on Broadway. My head is full of ideas and rhythms and lyrics that have meaning and feeling, but my songs are empty worded and lifeless. My brain practically radiates dullness and frankly, it’s depressing. 

   “Oh come on, Gordon!” 

   “No, Rhoda, I mean it. Writing this shit’s killed my talent”

   “That’s not true,” She argues, as any good friend would. But I’m not really listening. Blood rushes past my ears and I try to ignore the rattling of my skull. 

   “Sure it is, and if there’s anything left to kill, than Bungee will grind that up too!” I stand up abruptly. I pay no mind to the slight pulse I feel in my head, a little spike of pain. “I used to be-“

    “You’re still-“ 

    “I was.”

    She shakes her head in apparent disagreement. And I have the sudden urge to grab her shoulders and tell her to run the other way. To get a new friend, a new client, a better client, because, clearly, this was a mistake, I was a mistake. 

   “I once was but I’m no-“

   Then my brain explodes. The quiet voice of pain in the back of my mind is suddenly a screaming crowd. It’s writhing, searing pain, it’s hot and sharp and I grab my head, struggling to stay on my feet. 

   “Hey, hey,” Rhoda says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder, like a feather amidst a bloody car wreck, “Gordon are you okay?”

   “Something is wrong,” my knees buckle and Rhoda catches my by my elbows, lifting me back up.

   “What is it?” She says, panic clear in her voice, but she feels far away. Her hands are on my face, they’re cold. I hear Mr. Bungee laugh. “Gordon you’re scaring me, what’s wrong?”

  I blink, trying to anchor myself to her, “I don’t know.” She looks at me helplessly, “I do-.” 

  Then darkness comes rushing in and the world goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you notice mistakes or see any reason for me to take it down just comment.


End file.
